by Brooke Steiner

Created on: August 09, 2008

I wrote this article for bear meat, mostly because deer are unheard of in my neck of Alaska, but the basics of game cooking are universal.

We ate bear ribs by lamplight, having run out of gas for the generator over a week ago. But romance and kerosene are naturally inseparable. I parboiled the ribs all day in a mixture made up for the occasion (dinner). I start with salted water, over the meat. We argued about the garlic-it has to last all damn winter! you said-so I minced clove after clove with epileptic fervor until the tiny garlic blocks rose like a tiny, pungent Cheops.

That better not be my beer I smell! I had snuck out to the outhouse, with my precious cargo stowed in my giant parka. I coughed like I inhaled a fly while popping the top of the can. I slid it back into my pocket and sloshed back to the kitchen. Most spilled in the pocket, but I managed to save a few glugs into the boiling sauce. No, that is not your beer you smell, I say as I give a quick look over to the parka, hanging upside down, bleeding out yellow blood.

We agreed about the pepper, but you threw in extra Worcestershire when I turned to chop onions. As usual, you thought I was blinded by tears, but I saw. You just wanted to test the sauce, you said, while putting your nose to work sniffing for the beer, though you walked right by the parka five times.

I hummed to annoy you into leaving, but in that tight little kitchen you stayed. I stirred in some molasses while you winced and pulled a couple carrots out of the sawdust. Makes 'em keep all winter, said an old timer. You chewed them unpeeled like Bugs, loudly, with occasional orange periods dotting cryptic statement. I went to the pantry for some mustard seed and you had a field day with the rubbed sage. Some thyme please, look at the thyme, and my how thyme flies when I threw a handful at you threatening worse if you didn't stop. Use a little ginger! you say through smoke rings of sarcasm. I've often thought of ginger as an aphrodisiac: I look over at you then spoon most of it out and fling it in the slop bucket. When you were searching for a jar of beans, I threw in some curry, a thin yellow film I quickly stirred away. When I let the dog in, you dumped in all that rosemary. I came back and offered a tarragon sprig as an olive branch. I dropped it in the pot, put the lid on and took the towel at my waist, alive with flavors of the day, and throw it on the counter.

You brought in firewood, leaving perfect snow impressions from your boots

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